


Paraskínia

by SEABlRD



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic-Users, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-05-18 00:44:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14842344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SEABlRD/pseuds/SEABlRD
Summary: “Cut them off.”The guard holding the slave’s wings looks a little ill at the command,---Akielons are born with wings, and Veretians are born with magic. a handful of snippets of Damen and Laurent's story





	Paraskínia

**Author's Note:**

> i wanted to write a cute little fantasy/wingfic as my first fic in this fandom, but that didn't happen. im sorry in advance
> 
> i had [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jk1dkG8IK10) on repeat as i wrote this
> 
> title is based on the song but is subject to change because i’m an indesicive asshole
> 
> [edit] changed the title bc it looks more Artistic™ like that lol  
> the downside is that i have no idea what it means. google translate tells me it means ‘wings’ but like ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

** I. **

“Cut them off.”

The guard holding the slave’s wings looks a little ill at the command, turning to Laurent with a frown. “But your Highness-”

“Did I stutter?” Laurent snaps, hands clasped behind his back clenching with annoyance. Lightning sparks along his fingertips. The gagged slave looks at him in horror out of the corner of his eye. White feathers painted gold rustle under his unflinching gaze. “I said, cut them off.”

The guard drops the leather whip he’d been told to bring and reaches for his sword instead. The slave struggles against the cross, thrashing wildly in an attempt to push the blade away. Laurent watches as the sword comes down once, then twice, and again, hacking through bone and sinew. The noise is terrible, wet, fills the room with the slave’s animalistic screams.

He doesn’t feel nearly as vindicated as he thought he would. The guards pull the now-unconscious slave from the cross and rush him to the healer. Meanwhile, Laurent is left alone in the room to stare down at the rust-stained, mutilated wings.

It’s a pity. They were really quite beautiful.

  
**II.**

Laurent stands on the opposite side of the table, watching as the slave outlines the problems with his current plan on the map. He’s speaking Akielon, slowly, teaching Laurent his language. He doesn’t know Laurent’s true end goal, with these lessons, and if Laurent has his way then he won’t know until it’s upon him.

The cuffs glow in the candlelight, exposed where the man rolled up his sleeves. Laurent pulls his attention away from his hands to the man’s face, belatedly realizing that he was asked for his opinion.

“Why do you think Akielons are born with wings and Veretians with magic?” Laurent asks instead of responding, and enjoys the way the Akielon frowns at the question.

“I suppose it has something to do with the old myths,” he shrugs. “I never paid much attention to those, so I wouldn’t be able to say exactly why.”

Laurent nods. Knowing the kind of person he is, it comes as no surprise that he would be less interested in the historical aspect of his lessons. The Akielon turns his attention back to the map, silent now that he knows his audience isn’t listening. Laurent summons a small flame and rolls it over his knuckles like a coin trick, watching as the man move figurines into various formations on the table.

“Do you miss them?”

Damianos tenses, his hand automatically twitching as though he means to reach for his back. Laurent waits as the man collects his thoughts, visibly pushing down the anger he feels.

“All the time.” He answers, finally. Laurent can’t explain what he feels at that reply.

  
**III.**

The wind pulls at Laurent’s hat as they race across the rooftops. The chasing guards fire bolts of energy at them, missing by hair's breadths and knocking tiles to the streets below. His heart pounds in his chest as he summons a bridge of ice between two buildings spaced far apart. It crumbles as they pass over it, showering the guards with chunks of white snow.

Damen leaps over a chimney and crouches behind it, checking left and right for their pursuers. “I think we lost them,” he whispers, breath ragged. Together, they slid down a drainpipe and into a cobblestone alleyway. Around them, the sounds of the town coming to life.

Damen leans against the wall, sucking in air like a man half drowned. Laurent feels giddy with adrenaline, clutching his hat to his head and barely concealing his grin. He loves the game.

“That was a good chase,” he remarks, breathing just as heavily. “It felt like we were flying.”

As soon as the words leave his lips he regrets them. Damen sags beside him, leaning into the stone. He doesn’t look Laurent in the eye.

“No,” he shakes his head, his temple scraping against the wall where he presses it. “It didn’t.”

Laurent shuffles from one foot to another, itching to move out. To take action. To do anything but watch the giant man beside him make himself small. Damen steels himself and pushes away from the wall and Laurent moves to join him but is stopped by a hand on his chest.

“They’ve split up.” Damen says. “Go back, I’ll take care of it.”

“But-”

“Trust me.” The words aren’t forceful, but the look Damen gives him is intense and honest. Laurent isn’t afraid he will run, not when the man looks at him like this.

“... We will wait for you,” a day in Nesson, Laurent wants to add, but he can’t. We will wait for you. It’s not a question.

Damen nods and is already moving. “I will catch up,” he promises, then disappears around the corner.

He won’t need to. They’ll wait for him.

  
**IV.**

They come from the trees, stalking toward the ruins on padded feet; wolves and panthers and other beasts. They circle the crumbling archway, trapping Laurent and Damen together. Damen moves for his sword but Laurent stops him with a gesture.

“No, I’m expecting them,” he says . The wolves at the front of the pack shift into humans, Vaskians, and begin speaking with him in their language. Damen is left floundering at the change.

They take his weapon, stashing it into a leather bag that one of the women hands to one of the panthers. She takes the bundle between her teeth and stands off to the side. Laurent turns to him and hands him a blindfold, looking quite apologetic. With a sigh, Damen wraps the blindfold around his own head.

They are taken to the Vaskian camp on the backs of two intimidatingly large bears. Damen is glad for the inability to see because the very thought of riding something that is not a horse makes his stomach churn.

At the camp, the blindfolds are removed and Damen takes in the wildness of it. The woman beside him -- Kashel, Laurent tells him -- offers him food and drink with a distinctly feline grin. He hesitantly accepts, remembering Laurent’s instructions.

The woman on the dais, Halvik, watches him with slitted golden eyes. She and Laurent approach, the clanswomen parting for them to pass and watching with predatory gazes.

“Halvik requests that you perform a service for her girls,” Laurent tells him. “That you breed them, and have strong daughters with them.”

Damen looks up at him, frowning. “I’m just a slave,” he protests.

“You have no wings and have survived long. It is a mark of your strength, we would be pleased if you participated in the coupling fire.” Halvik explains, her Veretian purring and low, and Damen almost lunges at her. The reason he has no wings is standing right beside her and having tea. He chooses not to point this out, lest he ruin Laurent’s negotiations with the clan.

“Is- are you ordering me to?” he asks as he turns to Laurent, body already more than willing but his mind is crawling with ants.

“I can, if you’d like.” Laurent says, and if Damen didn’t know better he would call his tone teasing. Ignoring the offer he turns to Kashel, her smile mostly fangs, and draws her into a deep kiss.

Behind him, Laurent and Halvik return to the dais. He doesn’t care, and Kashel pulls him down onto a pile of furs.

  
**V.**

One night, he gives. An afternoon of chaos, an evening of revelry, and one night. “You’re still my slave tonight,” is what he says. _Don’t go, please_ , is what he means.

The kisses they share are deep and urgent, rushed by the deadline they’d given themselves, but also careful in a way Laurent hadn’t been expecting. Their clothes come off piece by piece, and electricity pulses under his skin where Damen’s fingers touch.

He moves his hands over Damen’s back, fingers dipping into the angry twin scars running parallel with his spine. He touches them lightly, willing his hands to be cool. Damen shivers into the touch.

 _You took something from me,_ Laurent thinks, nonsensical and mindless in the movements Damen makes against him. _You took something from me, and I took something from you. I didn’t know you would be this, to me. I want to be sorry._

But guilt and apologies evaporate in the heat of Damen’s touch. “I want it to be simple,” he says, and it is, until the world around them fades to morning.

  
**VI.**

Nikandros is glaring at him with unrestrained fury. It was a bad idea to let Damianos wrestle, but with the vast amounts of skin the man put on display during the fight Laurent can’t really make himself regret it. The other fighter’s wings were often in the way, but he saw more than enough to make it count.

Nikandros’ wings are deep brown, almost black, a stark contrast to Damianos’ once-white wings. The dark feathers ruffle with unconcealed desire to move, to engage Laurent in combat and challenge him for Damianos’ honor. Only on his king’s orders is he holding himself back.

“You have no idea what you’ve done to him.” Nikandros says through clenched teeth. “You cannot ground a bird and expect him not to fly.”

“He’s rather beyond flying, at this point.” Laurent points out, fingertips brushing against the unfamiliar metal of the cuff on his wrist. Nikandros’ eyes flash dangerously.

“He belongs to the sky. Even without wings, his heart will not forget that.”

It make no sense to him and he lets the kyros have the last word, if only because he has nothing better to say in return.

  
**VII.**

‘ _I know you’re not cold,’_ is what Damianos had said to him, that night at Marlas. _‘There is a storm in you, lightning and fire. I think you burn hotter than even you know.’_

He feels cold now, watching as Damen is racing on foot toward the Akielon cliffs. A resounding ‘FUCK!’ from Nikandros freezes Laurent to his saddle, his mare dancing with anxiety. Nikandros and three other soldiers chase after him, but they don’t reach him in time. With no hesitation, Damen jumps off the cliff.

There is ice in Laurent’s veins, slowing his pulse and slowing time. The pace at which the Akielons’ wings unfurl is glacial. The four soldiers throw themselves after their king, and for a terrifying few heartbeats there is no sound at all.

The Akielons appear over the edge of the cliff, Nikandros and another soldier holding Damen by his chest and legs. The other two soldiers follow closely, ready to catch either of them. Four pairs of wings churn as they bring Damen back to the rest of the men.

The look on his face is defeat. Laurent can’t bear to watch him for much longer, his heart thawing and hammering at his chest with panic he didn’t know felt. He’d seen this man’s back ripped open and he faced it with rage. He’d seen this man pulled and pushed like a puppet between him and his uncle as they played their games, and he respond with calculated focus. He’d seen this man a slave made free, had heard his confession and thrown it back in his face, and had gotten near optimistic determination from him. He didn’t know defeat was something a man like Damen could express.

 _He belongs to the sky_. Laurent hadn’t understood, but he thinks he does now.

  
**VIII.**

“Am I such a poorer prospect than a Patran princess, or a daughter of the Empire?”

No, of course not. He can never be less than he is, Laurent wants to say, but the memory of six years past is still white-hot in his chest and the words choke in his throat. There is anger in him, forgiveness is still out of his reach, and he doesn’t trust that he won’t hurt Damen again. It’s Laurent, rather, who is the poorer prospect for him.

He doesn’t voice so, holding Damen close as the man comes to terms with his grief. His uncle plays a difficult, cruel game, Laurent’s heart seethes, and Damen did not deserve to be pulled into it.

He runs his hands over Damen’s shoulders, palms icy and soothing. One scar peeks out from under the cloth of his chiton and Laurent remembers the sight of Damen throwing himself off the cliff. He runs his chilled fingers over the scar and Damen tenses.

“Don’t jump again,” Laurent says, the words more of commanding than he intends. Neither of them breathe into the darkness of the room. “Don’t jump, because I can’t follow you.”

“I’m sorry I scared you,” Damen mutters into the fabric of Laurent’s vest. “Nikandros was- I don’t want to die, I promise. I just,” miss my wings. He doesn’t say it, but Laurent hears anyway.

“Don’t jump.” Laurent repeats, feeling inadequate. No other words come to him. Damen nods, and together they sit on the edge of the bed and listen to the night.

  
**IX.**

Laurent’s arms are pinned behind his back by the Kingsmeet guards, and he watches helplessly as Damen tears his way through dozens of others. It’s impressive, the way he brushes them off like flies, and Laurent has the irrational thought that he should have been born Vaskian.

A blade swings toward Damen from the left and he turns his shoulder into it. He means to shield himself with his wing, Laurent realizes. Without the feathered limb to act as a shield, the sword bypasses his parry and catches in his shoulder, pulling a bellow of pain from him.

“Stop, it’s me you want!” Laurent gasps, even as Damen is forced to his knees. Ice crawls up from the ground freezing the guards’ legs in place and locking their arms. The Regent watches with an amused, unhurried grin, even as the frost makes its way up his opulent robes. Laurent’s breath comes in faster and he pushes down the lightning that threatens to fill his lungs. “It’s me you want, not him.”

For a sickening moment he’s sure he’s miscalculated and Damen will be taken from him. His uncle did always like confiscating his toys. He holds his breath as an agreement is reached and the ice thaws and he’s kneeling at his uncle’s feet willingly because he has nothing else to lose.

The static is in his ears now, and he can't hear his uncle commanding the guards to restrain him. He hears Damen with crystalline clearness, though. “Don’t jump, Laurent! Don’t jump, please,” he begs, and the guards pull him back. Laurent didn’t realize that he _could_ jump in the first place.

  
**X.**

Kastor sneers at him, clutching his bleeding side with one hand and dragging his sword against the tile of the baths with the other. His magpie wings curve over his shoulders, guarding him from the side.

“You took my brother’s wings!” He snarls as though it is a worse crime than enslaving his brother, framing him for murder, and giving his son to a vile man like the Regent. “You should have killed him, it would have hurt less.”

Laurent refuses to back down, ignoring Kastor’s jeers and Damen’s pleas to stop fighting. His muscles scream in protest as he moves, swinging Damen’s sword with all the strength he can muster. Fire licks up and down the steel, sparks flying from it when his and Kastor’s blades clash. He dances away and throws a bolt of energy in Kastor’s direction, but it’s deflected with a sweep of his wing.

Laurent slips on the damp floor. He doesn’t mean to, but he tilts to one side and Kastor is lunging at him with a triumphant shout. He pulls his legs under him and rolls, magic striking blindly, and when he comes out of it he is faced with the sight of Kastor impaled on a spear of ice.

His eyes find Damen, still chained to the floor like an animal. _Like a slave_ , his mind supplies, and he scrambles over to unlock the cuff. Damen’s other hand is pressed to the awful gash that still pulses blood and Laurent seethes at the fact that Kastor managed to hurt him again.

He holds a handful of ice to the injury and they share gentle hopes and hushed whispers as they wait for Nikandros to return with the healer. It was one kingdom once, they decide, and it can be one again.

  
**XI.**

Laurent holds the baby away from himself, the wriggling infant making delighted coos as it grabs at his once-impeccable braid. It’s been pulled apart and chewed on by now, and there’s no salvaging it until Damen takes his son from him again. Tiny, unfledged wings twitch against the baby’s back, brushing against the back of Laurent’s hand where he supports it.

Damen finally returns from the bath, a fresh bandage wrapped around him and a delighted smile on his face. He looks absurd.

“I think Augustus likes you.” He states, and Laurent nearly drops the baby in his surprise.

“Augustus? Really?” He draws out with a roll of his eyes. “You could not have picked a subtler name?”

Damen has the sense to look sheepish. “It means something to you,” he explains, “and it means something to me. Besides, I couldn’t leave him with the name Jokaste gave him.”

They both wince as they remember the wet nurse who introduced Damen to his infant son, Alastor. The unsubtle reminder of Jokaste’s treachery was immediately cast aside. They vowed to rename him, and make him a symbol of hope for their kingdoms. For them.

“Augustus.” Laurent tries it again, holding the boy against his chest. His braid is tugged again but it’s worth the look he receives from Damen. “I suppose the name is adequate.”

“His wings will be strong, when he grows.” Damen nods in approval, his hand brushing against Laurent’s as he pats his son’s back.

“They are ugly now,” Laurent points out; Damen snorts and doesn’t object.

“He’s going to love the sky.” He says instead, wistful. _I love you_ , Laurent thinks, but he doesn’t say so. He might never say so, in fact, but Damen’s eyes find his and he _knows_ , and that’s enough for him.

**Author's Note:**

> ** [SEQUEL/EPILOGUE HERE](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14872002) **
> 
> Alastor is, apparently, an overall bad name in general and it's tied to like evil stuff and vengeance or something idk :'3c
> 
> anyway thanks for reading!!! if you spot any mistakes or something, please let me know! <3
> 
> you can come yell at me @seablrd on tumblr!


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